


I Tell It To Resist, But My Heart Won't Listen

by bloodsugar



Series: My Heart Only Beats For You Without Stopping, Telling Me I’m Ready To Go [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bundesliga, FIFA World Cup 2014, Football, Football | Soccer, M/M, UST, no really there is so much Unresolved Sexual Tension in this I hate myself a little, rated M for a little bit dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsugar/pseuds/bloodsugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The short tale of Manu and Chris' working relationship/friendship evolving throughout the month they spent in Brazil for World Cup 2014 and upon their return to Germany - including the celebrations in Berlin. </p><p>Alternatively:<br/>5 times Manuel wanted to say something to Christoph and 1 time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Tell It To Resist, But My Heart Won't Listen

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Football RPF fanfic I have written, so I apologize if it isn't great. I tried. The Neumer moments from the FIFA 2014 really inspired me. Throughout the fanfic below, there will be appropriate links to gifs of those moments so I do encourage you to check them out ;) The titles of this fic and the series it belongs to are from the translated version of GOT7's "Like Oh". I do recommend you subscribe (either to me or to the series itself) because more Neumer is coming soon.
> 
> Kudos/Comments/Bookmarks are all very much appreciated, especially since I thrive on feedback. If you have Neumer prompts, send them my way, maybe something will inspire me. My tumblr is footiez.tumblr.com if you want to follow me or talk to me.

 

 

 

 

**5 times Manuel wanted to say something to Christoph and 1 time he did**

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone is properly wasted by midnight, and no one besides Manuel appears to be questioning it. Who goes to a bar after spending an entire day celebrating – proper celebrating, mind you, including lots of booze and overt public displays of affection between heterosexual men – one might ask. The answer would be the Germany national football team, because here they are.

 

Right next to Manuel are André and Mats - laughing together over Per’s ridiculous dancing, Mats’ arm slung over André’s shoulder in the most casual of ways while the blond leans against him some, ever so self-aware even in his current drunkenness. Across the room Jérôme is retelling the story of Mario’s goal for the billionth time like a proud older brother,despite the fact that everyone in this bar and their grandmother has witnessed the goal for themselves. Even more notable, for better or for worse, is the image of Benedikt, Lukas and Bastian who are in the middle of the room, surrounded by fans daring them to kiss. Nearby Thomas and Toni are urging them to go ahead and have that threeway right there – _„Come on, you cowards, I would be naked by now!” „Just kiss him, Ben, what’s the big deal!”_ \- while Philipp shakes his head in disapproval, his amusement betrayed by the twitching corners of his lips.

 

Manuel smiles despite himself, unable to resist the pull of the mood, the atmosphere filled with excitement, relief and accomplishment. They all wanted this to happen so badly, and now that it has, it’s like a dream they’re never going to wake up from. He’s happy to deal with that, he decides just as his almost non existent personal space is invaded by possibly the most infuriating person on the team.

 

„Manu...” Chris bats his long eyelashes at Manuel as he slides smoothly right up to him, their sides glued together almost like magnets. It sends a shiver up Manuel’s back to have this kid so close, talking to him like they’ve been best friends for years. Arguably, he probably should have worked harder to discourage this sort of behavior, and he hasn’t done that. Instead, he finds himself humouring the boy on the regular – as Phillipp had put it mere days ago, he was „spoiling Christoph beyond imagine”.

 

„What is it, kiddo?” He asks with a smirk, purposely being a little mean because he knows Chris hates it. Barely 23 years of age and such a lightweight to boot, Manuel would argue that Christoph is more of a kid than anyone in the room.

 

Chris pouts at this, naturally, and Manuel finds himself wishing he hadn’t provoked it because it’s having a funny effect on his intoxicated body.

 

„’m not a kid.” Chris slurs a little, his voice low while his lips barely moved. Manuel briefly wonders if it’s time to put him in a cab or alternatively take him to their hotel, but Christoph’s eyes are bright and clear, much more lucid than his body language would suggest he is.

 

‘What are you then?’ Manuel wants to ask, but the words can’t leave his mouth. Between their warm bodies plastered together, and the eye contact they haven’t broken for God knows how long he feels like the question might prompt an answer he shouldn’t receive. So he doesn’t ask, just stands there – his hands having found their way to Christoph’s sides, wanting to know so much, too much about this enigmatic boy who has driven him to places Manuel didn’t know existed before. It reminds him of all the times over the past month where he wanted to say something to Chris and didn’t allow himself to.

 

 

 

 

_1._

 

When they first landed in Rio, it’d been somewhat of a surprise that they had actual rooming arrangements, like at school trips most of them had been forced to go to when they’d wanted to play football instead. In the front of the bus Philipp had handed out a copy of the list to Sami and Mesut with a vaguely apologetic smile, followed by a short explanation about “ _organization_ ” and “ _companionship_ ”. By the time the list had been passed down to Manuel, everyone else on the bus had found out who his “pal for the World Cup duration” was.

 

“How come Toni gets to be with the captain and I’m stuck with Thomas?”

 

“Oh, the kitty has claws. If you dislike me so much, why don’t you go room with the other baby on the team, huh?”

 

“Who, me? At least I don’t bully twenty year olds in my spare time. Now, I have nothing against Per but…”

 

“But what, baby Mario? Uncomfortable you would be dwarfed by my dancing talent?”

 

“Personally, I am extremely pleased with this arrangement!”

 

“You would be. You and Bastian are attached at the hip 24/7 as it is.”

 

Complaints and comments of the sort could be heard from all corners of the bus, and Manuel had found himself almost too entertained by everyone to actually check and see who his rooming partner was. He’d tried not to seem too surprised when he’d looked down at the list and in the column across from his name was ‘Kramer’. He’d looked up then, finally meeting Christoph’s eyes – bright, blue and hopeful, like the kid was expecting Manuel to reject him and request a switch. Taking pity on the young man, Manuel had nodded and smiled at him a little instead, witnessing shortly relief sweep over the boy’s gaze.

 

And then there they were, in room 240 ( _“Because Christoph’s number 23 and yours is 1 and then you multiply by ten. Hehe.”_ had been Philipp’s amused explanation that no one really asked for.) unpacking essentials and deciding their turn for the shower. Christoph was almost too accommodating, mindful of the limited space in the room, passing by Manuel carefully as not to disturb him – like taking clothes out of his suitcase was something that needed a lot of focus.

 

“You don’t need to be such a little rabbit.” Manuel said to the boy, purposefully giving him a cold, calculating look because he was mean like that.

 

But rather than stare at him and stutter out some nervous response, Christoph straightened up to his full height – and he was tall indeed Manuel found the time to acknowledge with a lazy look up and down the young man’s body – and gave the goalkeeper a cheeky grin.

 

“I’m just testing to see how much of a control freak you are.” The kid said, flashing Manuel his pearly white teeth, looking genuine and mischievous.

 

Like the domino effect, a matching grin broke on Manuel’s face, a definite feeling of appreciation for Christoph’s attitude developing in his mind. ‘You and I will get along just fine.’ He nearly said out loud, but decided against. He didn’t want to make it too easy to “live in organization and companionship” throughout the following month.

 

 

 

[ _2._ ](http://reummels.tumblr.com/post/92855485071/my-little-contribution-to-this-ships-fandom-when)

 

Two week blur of training, practice games and matches – Brazil was kind to them, and as Manuel discovered, Philipp had been even kinder to pair him up with Chris of all people. Naturally their hotel partnership situation evolved to training together on the pitch, and sitting together on the plane and bus rides between cities and hotels. Wherever they were headed and whatever they were doing, the young man always had an entertaining little story to tell. His smile seemed to be perpetually plastered on his face, too, which made Manuel feel both youthful and in many ways carefree. He didn’t usually get handsy with his team-mates so fast and easy, but with Chris it felt natural. Like playing with a friendly puppy, but one who could and chose to talk back and tease him about anything and everything.

 

“I don’t know what possessed you to attack Algeria’s mid fielders like that throughout the whole match.” Chris grinned from the seat next to Manuel’s while on the bus to practice the day after Germany vs Algeria.

 

The goalkeeper shrugged coolly with a barely there look around the bus, noting that everyone was engaged in their own little conversation and none of them were of any interest to him aside from the one with the blond next to him.

 

“It’s what I do, kid. When you find yourself, spiritually, you will be equally amazing.” He smirked at Chris’s eye-roll.

 

“You’re so arrogant.” The boy said with a snort, slouching more comfortably into his seat, body unconsciously leaning towards Manuel’s. He took a deep breath and exhaled, the older man’s gaze immediately drawn to the curve where his shoulder met neck. From underneath his loose shirt appeared his headphones, dangling over his chest. Finding himself unable to recognize the quiet tune, Manuel found himself leaning in towards Chris’ shoulder.

 

“You like this song?” The boy’s tone was sweet and teasing, he’d probably caught on that Manuel hadn’t heard this song before in his life. “Or is this type of music too young and hip for you?”

 

The goalkeeper pulled back reluctantly, only to be met with a daring little grin.

 

 “I’m only 28, you little shit.” He couldn’t even manage a serious face or tone, giving the boy the freedom to give him a fake-sympathetic look.

 

“Sure thing, uncle Manu, only 28…” Chris’ blue eyes were all smiley and glistening with his amusement. How was this innocent-looking kid so damn cheeky at times, Manuel wondered to himself, holding the boy’s gaze and sporting a grin of his own.

 

“Your uncle can teach you a thing or two about being a midfielder.” He teased, because one of the best thing about Chris was his ability to take his mean comments and dish out lovely responses.

 

Surely enough, the blond straightened up a little in his seat, body twisting to face Manuel’s, a serious expression on his face. “Shall we switch in one of the following matches then? I’ll do goal-keep, you be a midfielder, mm?”

 

A second of contemplative silence and Chris barked out a short, happy little laugh, the sound making Manuel’s insides twist in something hot and primal. The relentless smile was back on the boy’s face like it’d never left.

 

‘I want to kiss that grin right off of your face.’ Manuel found himself thinking, and in the shock of experiencing the thought consciously for the first time managed to not say it out loud.

 

 

 

_[3.](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x21ete9_garay-vs-kramer_sport) [.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RC-ES6olBGk)_

 

The match against Argentina was barely what any of them had pictured, especially after the semi-final against Brazil. Argentina’s style of play was different than anything they’d experienced so far, and if Manuel wasn’t so focused on doing a good job at goal keeping, he would have wondered if maybe the other team was hoping for penalties.

 

They could win it, though, he knew that much. Mats and Jérôme were perfectly in tune with him, using him as a fourth defender in the frequent cases when Benedikt was off on the other side of the pitch playing as a midfielder rather than the defender that he was. This happened a lot on the team, players getting out of their comfort zones – Thomas and Miro acting as defenders, Mats scoring goals like some special type of striker, Sami and André covering the entire pitch like triple-threats. Manuel doesn’t worry about it too much, even coach Loew agreed it is good for the players to follow their instincts. It’d done them good so far, and it was going to help in the final too.

 

He wasn’t given a reason to worry until a few short minutes into the match, and frankly, it proved to be a bigger distraction than he would have liked to admit. The pass was high, but Chris is tall. Manuel didn’t expect the Argentine defender Garay to be even close to reaching the ball and he was too far away to see exactly what happened anyway. But there was a collision and when Chris fell to the ground, the goalkeeper’s legs started leading him towards the other half of the pitch on their own accord before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to leave the goal unattended. He watched the big screen hitched high in the stadium for close ups of the medical team tending to Chris, his heart pounding in his chest.

  
It was well after the game had resumed that Manuel snapped out of his trance of worry and focused on the match. Players get hurt all the time, including ones on his team. But he hadn’t reacted to an accident like this in a while. His glances at the screen alerted him to Chris’ glazed over look – those bright, clear eyes looking too unfocused. The younger man could have a concussion and they still let him play. Manuel was alert but not in the way he was supposed to be.  He let a goal in, and thanked his lucky stars it was offside. Half time couldn’t get there fast enough.

 

When it did, he found himself spending all fifteen minutes of it at Chris’ side, first making sure he was okay like some mother hen, then holding light conversation about how well the young midfielder did and how he’d made a difference even if it didn’t feel like it. The kid raised those baby blues up at him and fucking smiled, like it was just the two of them chatting about whatever, and Manuel’s heart clenched.

 

‘Those assholes can’t win now that they’ve done this to you.’ He wanted to say, but Thomas and Per were lingering nearby, so he clenched his jaw. Not much later, when Higuain went down after their collision, Manuel’s lips curled upward just a little.

 

 

 

_[4.](http://hockeyz.tumblr.com/post/93327763899/tuimaouu-neuer-kramer) [.](http://fuckyeahneuerkramer.tumblr.com/post/92628383240/manu-touches-christoph-while-receiving-the-medals)_

 

They won. The won and it was perfect. For a second it didn’t even matter that it had been dragged on into extra time and everyone had fought tooth and nail for penalties not to even be an option. Mario’s volley had secured them the advantage and from then on they’d just needed to hold out. And they did. And then all that mattered was the ceremony, the fans, them as a team standing together barely believing that it was real.

 

And real it was. On the pitch half of them broke down crying, and while Manuel was more than capable of hiding his emotions no matter how strong, he too let the tears well up as he threw himself on top of the pile of players squishing Mats and André at the very bottom.

 

The Golden Glove was awarded to him, and the happiness of the moment when he lifted it in the air nearly killed him. This was his. Manuel Neuer – the best goalkeeper of World Cup 2014. It was surreal and it was happening to him. From the pitch below his team mates were cheering for him as his heart swelled with pride. They shared this together, even the Glove – they shared that too in a way.

 

When Philipp lifted the cup for the first time, a roar making its way out of his throat, Manuel felt his entire body jerk with the innate response to it. The cup was theirs, they damn near bled for it – in some of their cases literally – and it was finally theirs. The euphoria was endless and they’d worked for the right to revel in it. Weltmeister 2014.

 

Then Chris was there, having found his way next to Manuel – right next to him. Their hands all over each other, Manuel didn’t even try to rationalize why they couldn’t stop touching. He didn’t need to. Chris – young, vibrant, happy – leaned into him hard, grinning from ear to ear, rambling about ‘’the best day of our lives, isn’t it?”, about how long he had dreamt of it despite having a lot to look forward to still.

 

The endless energy of their victory was coursing through both of them as they clung to each other, unable to stop smiling. Manuel let the boy hug him and squeeze him, clutch at him like he’d never let go, and let himself revel in that too. The stadium was loud, so very loud, giving them the perfect excuse to stick close to hear each other better. Arm slung around Chris’ shoulder, Manuel felt the boy’s arms slip around his back, then around his waist as the blond pulled them close together again and again, his face in the goal keeper’s neck, lips grazing his cheek, then his ear.

 

“We won, can you believe it!? I can’t fucking believe it myself, I swear to you. Thought the match would go on forever… God my chest is pounding in it, can you feel it? You must be feeling it too!” Chris couldn’t stop smiling through the tirade of words coming out of his mouth in a rush, and Manuel urged him on with his own smile, his short words of agreement and his body language. He let the boy kiss his cheek enthusiastically and squeezed his shoulder and sides in turn, holding him close.

 

‘I want to celebrate this with you in every way possible.’ He wanted to say, nearly delirious from this perfect moment they were beautifully stuck in, but the swarm of team mates started pushing and pulling them along to the pitch. Manuel let his hands linger on Chris’ shoulders, not caring if the display was interpreted by their millions of spectators as possessiveness.

 

 

 

 [ _5._](http://hockeyz.tumblr.com/post/92620518609/saramina-seit-ich-das-gesehen-habe-bin-ich-voll)

 

The Berlin celebrations at Brandenburg Gate rivaled the official final ceremony in Brazil. To be on their own turf again, on home soil, with family nearby and thousands of German fans surrounding them and cheering for and with them as official winners? Was priceless.

 

They had plenty of champagne before they appeared on stage, and as far as Manuel was concerned, plenty of champagne on stage as well. He didn’t care, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to care either. No one, especially not the fans, would judge them for anything at that glorious moment. He felt free enough to let loose because he was home and home was comfortable. It was comfortable to take “selfies” with Mesut and Lukas, comfortable to scream at the top of his lungs at response for the fans’ chanting, comfortable to raise a bottle of champagne to his lips repeatedly without regard for public decency. And it was certainly comfortable to reach out and stroke the back of Chris’ soft, bare neck to attract his attention.

 

The boy’s response, immediate and agreeable offered something to the older man that was well beyond comfort. Chris’ mild look of surprise, the curving of his body in Manuel’s direction, the step closer and into Manuel’s space as he embraced him in turn, served only to send a thrill of appreciation and anticipation through the goal keeper’s body. It had been too long since he’d had someone so in tune with him, someone so responsive and aware of what sort of interaction Manuel desired at that very moment. This kid, whom he’d shared something incredible with already, was such a keeper it was beyond belief that they wouldn’t be spending the next months constantly in each other’s company like it’d been in the past 30 days.

 

As the celebrations went on, Manuel stuck close to the kid, whether it were by accident or on purpose. With the German flag wrapped around their hips, Chris leaned in to chuckle his mild embarrassment into Manuel’s ear, who couldn’t ask for a better excuse to wrap both arms around the blond’s shoulders and press them closer together.

 

“Now these are some fine patriotic skirts, we’re wearing.” The boy’s breath was warm on Manuel’s skin, his voice light and friendly.

 

Manuel laughed heartily at that, offering to help Chris tie his properly around his waist.

Later, on that same stage, with the fans still cheering for them, he held the blond close, their matching heights offering a sense of ease and freedom. Manuel’s arm secured firmly but carefully around Chris’ waist, his other hand caressing Chris’ back and shoulder, he nuzzled the boy’s neck then kissed his soft pale skin.

 

“You’re the best.” Manuel murmured - the first blatant compliment he’d said about the boy out loud, let alone directly to him. When Chris returned the gesture readily, his plump lips finding the goal keeper’s skin with ease, Manuel squeezed him some, barely stopping himself from saying ‘You feel just right.’

 

He blamed the shameless displays on the alcohol when sense came to him shortly after, and allowed himself some lingering touches with the younger man for the rest of the celebrations.

 

 

 

 

The thought of alcohol brings Manuel out of his reverie and into the present again. With Chris’ long lean body pressed into his side, his bright blue hooded eyes set on Manuel’s face -  their team mates scattered all around the bar filling it with chatter and laughter.

 

“Where did you go just now?” Chris asks, head tilting to the side, his voice warm and mellow. He gives him a soft, curious look as his hand finds Manuel’s arm and he strokes it slowly. The touch alone nearly draws a string of truths out of the goal keeper. He wants to sink into the sensations their proximity is giving him and never come back up for air.

 

In the end, Manuel settles for some honesty. “Reminiscing about the past month…”  He searches Chris’ face for any transparent thoughts and all he can make out in the flushed youthful expression is happiness and serenity.

 

“And?” the younger man prompts, lips curling upwards a little, his breathing steady as demonstrated by the way his chest rises and falls evenly against Manuel’s side. The goal keeper feels like he is being drawn into another little moment where only the two of them exist, only vaguely aware of the people and noise surrounding them.

 

He speaks despite any better judgment he may have under different circumstances. “And I am happy we shared so much together.” He nearly winces at the admission, not used to being so frank about things like these with someone whom he hasn’t known for years and years. But Chris’ soft smile stays put, his eyes open and honest and surprisingly lucid.

 

He nods, thumb stroking the inside of Manuel’s arm as he prods a little further. “…And?”

 

Manuel opens his mouth to say ‘And I am glad I shared it with you. You of all people – the cheeky 23 year old whom I didn’t expect to share a hotel room with, but did. You, the boy who talks back to me like we’re high school buddies and takes showers that are too long. The cute blond kid who got himself nearly knocked out at the Argentina final and turned me into some protective bully for the rest of the match somehow. I’m glad you clung to me at the ceremony and I would have let you kiss me, too if you had tried to do it. And I’m glad I kissed you today, even if I want to do it again and again, in many different ways, all over.’ but nothing comes out. It’s too much to admit, too much to say right there, in the middle of a crowded bar where the curious little bartender nearby can overhear.

 

He manages a short step back. “I need some fresh air.” He says instead, feeling a nearly overwhelming wave of guilt at Chris’ look of surprise laced with hurt. His heart jumps in his chest at it and he takes Chris’ hand in his, tugging him gently. “Come with me.”

 

He leads the boy through the crowd, nearly getting dragged into a couple of enthusiastic conversations by their fellow team-mates, but they do make it out the door and into the cool, dark night. The street is full of people chatting in groups, smoking, laughing – German flags hanging on their shoulders, around their waists. None of them engage them, and it makes Manuel feel relieved and respected. He wants a feel of privacy for this, whatever this is.

He pulls Chris along to the far corner of the building, almost out of the soft street light and away from prying eyes, although it is clear that if someone wants to see them, they can. He can’t hide them from everyone, not unless he drags the boy into a cab and takes them both the hotel right now. But it would be presumptuous, too presumptuous.

 

They lean against the side of the building, within an arm’s reach of each other. Manuel’s back is against the wall, and he sighs, at a loss for words again now that he finally has the freedom and privacy to be honest.

 

“I’m…” he hesitates, eyes on Chris’ face, noting the man’s open, expectant expression. He thinks he sees a certain glint in the younger man’s eye, but he can’t be sure what it is. “I’m really glad it was you. As my roommate for the World Cup duration…” His mouth feels dry and he definitely feels too sober all of a sudden.

 

But Chris smiles at him, that genuine, big smile of his and steps closer until their bodies are almost touching. “Yeah?” he inquires softly, tone happy but calm. Manuel’s insides clench as an immediate reaction and he resists the urge to mask his vulnerability.

 

“Yes.” He nods, eyes traveling from the boy’s face, down his long neck and even longer frame, before jumping back to Chris’ face just in time to see an amused little smirk disappear from the younger man’s lips.

 

“I’m really glad too…” The blond says - his voice so mellow and silky it is practically a whisper. He has leaned in closer still, Manuel realizes when Chris’ thighs graze his – not quite pressed together, but almost there. It is so close, the goal keeper aches for it. He’s a bit out of breath when he forces his eyes away from their touching bodies and up to meet Chris’ bright blue gaze. The boy is giving him a look like he is expecting Manuel to say more, like he’s asking him what else there is to be said, what is Manuel is hiding. Like there’s some secret the older man should be whispering to him in the night.

 

But it’s no secret. It can’t be, not on this day when everything is perfect and nothing can touch them. There is an extended period of quiet, where Manuel’s hands find their way to Chris’ shoulders, sliding down his arms to reach his hands and tug him forward a little bit. The younger man goes easily, his lithe pliant body curving into Manuel’s until their fronts are touching, Chris’ slimmer form supported by Manuel’s against the wall.

 

Chris is warm and he feels peaceful and comfortable against him as Manuel’s arms slide around his lower back to hold him. It’s not a grip, but he’d be lying if he said there isn’t urgency coiling in his chest. He breathes in deep, trailing his fingers over the boy’s spine; feeling thrilled at the way Chris’ back arches in response to his touch. The blond’s breathing is a bit uneven, and it feels so intimate to be this close, hidden from anyone’s immediate line of sight. Manuel wants more of this, much more. He slides his hands slowly up Chris’ back, noting every muscle and how it twitches and moves under his touch. It feels right to touch, to touch this beautiful young boy in particular.

 

“I never want to take my hands off of you.” He says, low and husky, hyper aware of every touching point of their bodies. Chris stiffens and twitches against him, pulling back only as much as is needed to look into his eyes. The blue of those eyes is still ever so vivid, pupils dilating in much the same way Manuel guesses his own are. The boy then leans deeper into him, resting his weight against Manuel’s body until he can’t help but respond. He sinks his fingers in the boy’s waist and pulls him in further still, shivering when Chris lets out a choked little sound and a breathy little “Yes.” against his lips.

 

Manuel wants. He wants so much.  “I want to kiss you.” He almost groans the admission, everything in his body urging him to just do it – do everything and more to this perfect young man, his team mate and friend. Chris pants out another breathless “Yes...” and it only drives him further into honesty. “I want to touch you… everywhere.” Manuel illustrates by sliding his palms down Chris’ back, taking in the lovely hitch of the boy’s breathing and the tilt of his body back into the goalkeeper’s hands. He lets them linger over the curve of Chris’ ass, but he can’t grasp it – not now, not here in public where anyone could see at any point. This is the worst time to face the truth of their chemistry head on, but it’s the best time too.

 

“I want to celebrate the World Cup win with you.” Manuel keeps talking, his voice near a whisper now, words flowing out of his mouth without filter now and right into Chris’ ear. “Celebrate in every way possible…” he sinks his fingers into the boy’s hips, “All night.” He tilts his pelvis forward just a little, just enough for Chris to feel him. “In every position… every one of them.” He growls a little, saying it like a promise, which it is, it has to be. He needs to share pleasure, pure, shameless, hot pleasure with this boy. “You want it too? Tell me.” He asks, because that’s all there is left to it. All he needs to hear.

 

Chris nods rapidly, licking his lips like he needs water right now, or maybe it’s a kiss that he needs. Manuel desperately wants to give it to him. “Fuck, I really want to kiss you.” He repeats, raspy, starving for it himself. His hand is on the back of the boy’s neck on its own accord, and he strokes, squeezes and kneads at it a little, unable to take his eyes off of Chris’ face. The blond’s parted lips let out a weak little moan at that, and his eyes glaze over, eyelids hooded and heavy and perfect. “Perfect, you’re perfect.” Manuel rasps, because he can’t help himself, he has to tell it all now that he has started.

 

“Tell me yes. Tell me you want it.” He urges, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice. He squeezes Chris’ neck again and the boy’s knees honest to God buckle, making him throb in need.

 

“I …” Chris pants, lost, licks his lips and tries again. “I can’t believe … finally this is happening.” He’s giving Manuel a look of want and desperation himself. “I want this. You. I want you.” He hurries to confirm, his voice shaking a little and the words roll so sweetly off of his tongue Manuel wants to eat him alive, now. He slips his fingers through Chris’ hair, petting, stroking gently, and then moving to his cheek, tracing the beautiful sharp jaw line. The boy lets out a shaky little breath, like he’s waiting to be taken right then and there, and it’s the sweetest torture Manuel has experienced in his entire sexual history.

 

“Tonight.” He whispers, trying to sound firm and steady, but he looks at the kid with want and uncertainty and respect. Chris melts against him a little more, long lean thigh sliding between his without thinking. “Tonight.” Manuel repeats, squeezing the boy by the hip. “Come home with me?”

 

The haze in Chris’ eyes clears out a little and he nods again, eagerly, reaching for Manuel’s shoulders to steady himself. “Yes, let’s go, now.” He agrees, pressing his warm body into Manuel’s thoughtlessly and it feels impossible to break apart and pull out of this moment.

 

Manuel curses under his breath, wanting to start right there, immediately, and tries to summon his self control. He slides his arm around Chris’ waist and leads him back to the bar for long enough for them to say their goodbyes to whoever is sober and interested enough to find out they’re leaving. He uses the most cliché excuse of them all “Chris is drunk, I’m going to put him to bed.” barely sounding convincing to his own ears, with Chris glued to him the whole way, shifting against his side at every mention of the world “bed”.

 

It is only a matter of minutes before they’re hailing a cab, both getting in the back seat next to each other, their thighs touching. Manuel can’t touch, can’t risk the cabbie recognizing them and starting an international scandal, but God it’s probably the hardest thing he’s had to put up with. He sees the same strained self control in Chris’ gaze when their eyes meet and feels like they’re almost nearing the end of the final match all over again. Chris leans into his side a little, his lithe body radiating tension and need, and Manuel reaches for his hand, taking it in his. The ride to the hotel can’t be over fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
